


Will you eat with me?

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Desperation, First Kiss, First Time, Food Porn, Frottage, Innuendo, M/M, Post Mary, Post S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4481837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has moved back to Baker Street and Sherlock and John finally face what's been between them for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will you eat with me?

“I’m glad you’re home.” Sherlock poked at the smouldering logs, stirring them back to reticent life before replacing the poker in the rack and returning to his chair, taking his scotch-glass with him.

“Yeah, me too. It was time,” John wiggled his toes in their gaudy socks, revelling in the cosy warmth of the room.

“More than time,” Sherlock mumbled, “Out of interest, what held you back?”

John shrugged behind his tumbler, taking a sudden interest in the way the dim light reflected of the amber liquid, “Dunno really, lease expiry date, expectations… reputation.”

Sherlock snorted dismissively, “Reputation… Dull. Boring things, in other words.”

“Your reputation isn’t boring, Sherlock. It matters what people think of you.”

“I don’t _care_ what other people think of me,” came the terse reply.

“I know, but I do,” John murmured quietly.

An easy silence fell. John had moved back to Baker Street over a week ago, almost six months after Mary’s departure. The truth had finally come out about Mary and the baby, and with all the delicate handling of a royal scandal, John’s wife and the child that was never his had been quietly removed from John’s life, London, and probably England.

John had seen the gentle machinations of Sherlock’s brother in the process and although thanks had not been asked or offered, John’s gratitude was clear in every conversation with Mycroft following the incident.

Sherlock lowered his glass to the coffee table, “Why would you think my reputation was at risk?”

Taking a fortifying sip, John weighed his words, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes, “Well, you know… people still talk.”

“They always will,” Sherlock steepled his hands below his chin, “What about specifically, this time?”

John scratched idly at the nape of his neck, “I didn’t want people thinking you were the cause of…” John coughed, “you know… Mary.”

“But I _was_ the cause.” Sherlock said evenly.

“Yeah, but not like that. You found out what she was doing, uncovered the plot, but… people would think…”

“What would people think, John?”

“That… I dunno, “ John knew Sherlock was pushing him, forcing him to articulate his thoughts, no matter how much he might want to obfuscate, “that you were… in the way.”

“Was I?” He asked quietly, behind his fingers.

John chuckled a little awkwardly, “Always.” He paused as a flash of hurt brushed Sherlock’s eyes in the dim firelight, “No, don’t take it that way. It’s just…” John searched for the right words, “You fill a room, Sherlock. Even when you’re not there.”

“That doesn’t make sense, John.” Sherlock’s brows were furrowed, but his eyes were alight with curiosity.

“It’s like… it’s like the scent of pine lingers in a room after the Xmas tree has been removed. It reminds me of the celebration.” John winced, “Sorry, it’s the scotch, that sounded twee.”

But Sherlock was nodding slowly, “You always were a romantic.”

“Shut up.”

With a snort, Sherlock picked up his glass again, hiding his smile behind the rim.

**--**

**10 minutes later**

“I tried not to get in the way, you know.” Sherlock broke the silence as he refilled his tumbler again.

John started a little, jolted back out of whatever thoughts had distracted him, “Hmm, what?”

“You and Mary... Before we knew, I mean. I tried.” There was a note of sadness behind the words, gently slurred with the alcohol.

John watched as he took another long swallow from the glass, “I know,” he said carefully, “I know you did. It wasn’t your fault, I wanted you there.”

“I missed you.” Sherlock blurted suddenly, achingly vulnerable.

“I missed you too,” John replied, understanding all the ways he meant.

Sherlock sighed in frustration, “You belong here…” He waved around the room in a vaguely uncontrolled way, “with me.”

“Sherlock…” John felt the need to protect his friend from whatever inebriated declarations may be imminent.

Sherlock lifted his head to meet John’s eyes with his own, soft and sad, “You never understood.”

The words piqued John’s interest and in spite of his better judgement he whispered, “I never understood what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock gaze was shockingly open, “How much I need you.”

John found he had no reply, and the silence returned.

**--**

**20 minutes later**

“We’ve had far too much to drink,” Sherlock regarded the almost empty Scotch bottle sitting next to him.

Sometime in the intervening period, they’d cleared the the table and pushed it away, moving to sit on the floor in front of their chairs. Sherlock’s legs lay parallel to John’s, his feet tucked against John’s hip.

“We should have gotten something to eat.” John reached to refill his own glass, missing the bottle on his first grab.

“The fridge is empty, you didn’t buy anything,” Sherlock stated the obvious.

“You could’ve done something yourself,” John muttered back.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock nodded distractedly, staring into the middle-distance, “never seemed the right time.”

“We still talking about food?” John chuckled teasingly and then sucked in a quick breath at the careless words that had tumbled forth without thinking.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to John’s, the silence suddenly deafening, “Perhaps,” he replied slowly.

“And are you hungry, Sherlock?” John whispered roughly, suddenly serious.

“Starving.” Sherlock’s level gaze didn’t waver, but his tone dropped, “I have been for some time.”

“And would you eat… if I were to make something?” John asked, his breathing picking up suddenly.

“I thought you liked your… food sweeter, more… delicate.” Sherlock leaned forward, intent.

John considered his reply, “I think perhaps I’ve been ordering off the wrong menu. I find I’ve been checking out something a bit… spicier?”

“Hmmm, not worried about getting… burned?” a flicker of doubt lingered in Sherlock’s narrowed eyes.

“Thought we were discussing you, not me.” John shifted where he leaned back against his chair, rolling the ice cubes around in his scotch glass.

“Still,” Sherlock flexed his feet, rubbing his toes against John’s hip, “I wouldn’t want to ask you to… cook, if you… weren’t hungry.”

John drained the last of his scotch in one gulp, “Sherlock… I’ve wanted to… share a meal with you for some time.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock rumbled thoughtfully,”I can imagine it. The two of us… together”

John cleared his throat roughly, glancing down at Sherlock’s feet, where they were rubbing gently against his jeans, “Can you?” he whispered.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock’s deep voice filled the space between them, and John watched as Sherlock blinked slowly, pupils dark and huge.

“What would we… have?”

Sherlock smiled lazily, his fingers spread over the thighs of his pyjama pants, “Something delicious,” the word rolled from his mouth like cream, “something we’d take our time over.”

John could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, his lips had parted and he wet them with his tongue, “Really?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Oh yes, after so long I’d want to savour this meal.”

“And…umm… how would it start, this meal?” John shifted, his own feet now stroking at the side of Sherlock’s thigh.

“Well,” Sherlock shifted one of his hands so he was brushing the tips of John’s toes with his fingers, “I doubt we’d go for anything heavy,” he glanced up from John’s stockinged feet to smile, “yes, I think we’d definitely start with something… light.”

John twitched in response, wiggling his toes under Sherlock’s gentle touch, “But not subtle, it should make its intentions clear.”

“Oh yes, certainly.” After running his hand down along John’s foot, Sherlock eased the sock off, “It should set the stage for what’s to come.”

“And you… “ John placed an enquiring hand on Sherlock’s foot, already bare at his side, “would you have the same, or something different?”

Sherlock eased a hand under John’s foot, lifting it to rest on his thigh, “I’m not sure, I think perhaps I might just enjoy watching you… eat… to begin with.”

There was no helping the whispered profanity that slipped from John’s mouth as he shifted on the floor, desperately trying to make himself more comfortable within the confines of his jeans.

Sherlock simply smiled and encircled John’s ankle with a warm hand, sliding his fingers up his pants-leg as far as the denim would allow, “Would you like that, John, if I only watched?”

John sat transfixed by the way Sherlock’s hand disappeared and reappeared at the hem of his jeans, the sight inexplicably filthy, “No… “ he managed shakily, “No, I think we should enjoy the meal together.”

“Then I’d share yours, if you’d let me.” Sherlock eased off John’s other sock, tossing it into the darkness behind him.

“That’d be… umm, yeah, that’d be… good.” Sherlock was now running his firm hands along the lengths of both feet, sliding smoothly up and back down John’s calves as far as he could reach.

“I’m beginning to think you haven’t considered the dress-code carefully enough, John,” Sherlock arched casually, free to move in the soft fabric of robe and pyjama pants.

John shifted again, too hot and too confined, “I hadn’t realised the evening would be so… informal.”

Sherlock tipped forward to crawl toward John, “I definitely think you’re overdressed. Let me help you with your coat… sir.” Without making a move to undo the button, he settled his fingers at the top of John’s shirt, waiting for permission.

“Please,” John replied and wished there was slightly less begging in his tone.

“Of course, sir. I’ll have you more comfortable in just a minute.” With deftness at odds with the amount of alcohol they’d consumed, Sherlock rid John of his shirt before pausing thoughtfully at the button of his jeans and sitting back on his heels.

“I think that should do for now, wouldn’t want to get ahead of ourselves.”

John groaned and shifted again, “Seriously? You’re sitting there in nothing but flannelette and a t-shirt and you’re leaving me in jeans?”

Sherlock smirked, his eyes bright and wicked, “Perhaps just a little taste then, just to rouse the appetite.” Sherlock bent to release the button and eased the zipper down.

“Oh, God.” John exhaled a relieved breath that caught as Sherlock trailed the backs of his fingers across the already damp cotton exposed within John’s flies, “Sherlock… “

“Now,” Sherlock drew his hand back and exhaled hard, settling instead along John’s side, curled tight and warm from chest to hip, “let’s talk about what you’d like for your main meal.”

John turned to where Sherlock was tucked against his shoulder, face inches away, eyes warm and bright. He could feel Sherlock pressed, hot and hard against his hip even though the denim. There was a subtle twitching and quivering wherever they touched as Sherlock ruthlessly controlled the nervous adrenaline coursing through him and something of John’s awe at his restraint must have shown in his eyes as Sherlock suddenly groaned and captured John’s lips with his own.

It was sudden, surprising and after a shocked gasp, entirely welcome. If it had been left to John, they’d have been shagging on the rug ages ago and he was quietly pleased to see he wasn’t the only one riding the knife-edge of desperation. John mumbled Sherlock’s name on a breath, warm and wet into his friend’s mouth. Part question, part request and Sherlock’s hand came up to curl at the back of John’s neck, tugging him closer.

Sherlock licked and nipped at John’s mouth, duelling with John’s tongue as it flicked out to delve into Sherlock’s mouth. John brought a hand up to push under Sherlock’s t-shirt, working his way up the ladder of his ribs to thumb over pebbled nipple. John whimpered in encouragement as Sherlock’s shivering worsened, seemingly on the brink of simply pushing John to the floor. At the thought, John groaned and began trying to shove his jeans down one-handed. Without looking, Sherlock lay a large hand on John’s hip, stilling his movements, before briefly canting his hips against John’s side and pulling away, panting shakily, their temples pressed together.

“Sorry… nearly… “ Sherlock barked a rough laugh, “…nearly jumped straight to dessert there.”

“I like dessert,” John reached to palm Sherlock through the thin fabric, “let’s have dessert!”he said frantically as Sherlock calmly gripped his wrist and moved his hand away.

He dragged in a longer breath, more controlled, “John, as tempting as that is, I’ve waited too long to let you skip a course.”

“Fuck the other courses,” John muttered in frustration, “I want my dessert, Sherlock. I _need_ dessert, right now!”

“But don’t you think…”

Whatever Sherlock had planned to say was cut short as John gave the taller man a rough shove, tipping him onto his back and crawled to loom above him with a growl, “Sherlock… “

Sherlock stared up, shocked lust flushing his sharp cheekbones as his eyes widened.  
John’s eyes softened minutely but his tone was unwavering, “Sherlock, there’s time for other… food…” the word was hissed between tight lips, “…later.” He dove down to kiss Sherlock hard on the lips, “But right now… I… want… dessert.”

The tension fell from Sherlock’s limbs and he was suddenly pliant under John’s hands, all resistance surrendered, “Yes… please, yes.” he whispered.

John grinned and lowered his hips so they were pressed together and John mumbled, “finally,” as the move gave some much needed friction and Sherlock’s head dropped back with a dull thud to the rug.

A gentle tilt dragged a groan from them both before John swore under his breath, “These _fucking_ jeans.” He pushed himself up to straddle Sherlock thighs before kneeling up to wriggle them down over his hips. Shoving them down his thighs as far as he could manage, he pulled at the tie of Sherlock’s robe in frustration, “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he huffed, “do something about it.”

Sherlock nodded, pulling his robe off his shoulders and then smoothly lifting his t-shirt up over his head as John briefly stood to finally rid himself of his jeans.

Without warning, the reality of the situation came crashing over them as John looked down at Sherlock, prone on the rug, chest bare and rosy flush stretching up his neck to his face. The scar from the bullet that had almost taken him away still showed, a pale divot on his chest. John gasped a stuttered breath and swallowed hard.

Sherlock glanced down, following the path of John’s gaze and then looked up, eyes glittering and he reached up a hand toward John, beckoning him back.

“Here?” John asked quietly, “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock replied softly, “We’ve waited long enough.”

Returning to his knees, either side of Sherlock’s narrow hips, he settled gently to his haunches, arse barely resting on Sherlock’s thighs and regarded the man below him.

“You’re magnificent, you know? I can’t believe you’re here.” John raked down Sherlock’s body with his eyes.

Sherlock’s brows drew together, a tiny crease forming, “Where else would I be, John?”

John tipped forward, bringing their naked chests together and John bracketed Sherlock’s head with his forearms and he leaned down, “Where else indeed.”

The shivering was back, John could feel it in the muscles of Sherlock’s shoulders and chest. Fine tremors that came and went in waves. If John didn’t know Sherlock so well, he might think the man was nervous, but he’d seen this before; being briefed by Lestrade, at the sight of a gun, when a fugitive made a run for it. It was the twitching of a racehorse braced to run, pent up energy awaiting permission to be released. The thought that Sherlock was holding himself back was intoxicating.

John stalled an inch above Sherlock’s lips, watching as the man’s eyes flicked between his lips and his eyes, craning his neck upward, reaching for contact that John withheld.

“Are we through playing, Sherlock? No more games, OK?” John murmured without a trace of humour. He ground his hips downward, delighting in the way they moved together through underwear and pyjamas.

“No more games…” Sherlock reached up again, his mouth falling open as he did so.

“I want you… “ John leaned to one side, whispering into Sherlock’s ear, “I don’t want some act… some reserved, carefully judged version of how you think I want you.” John nuzzled closer and sucked his earlobe between his lips before continuing, “I just… need… you.”

With a shudder, Sherlock came to life under John’s hands. Hands that had been acquiescent and submissive were suddenly firm and demanding on John’s waist, pulling them roughly together as Sherlock’s hips drove upward.

“John…” his name was a whimper, a cry, a clarion call. And John couldn’t suppress the grin as Sherlock surrendered and the desperate need he’d been bottling up broke free.

With a startled squeak, he found himself suddenly beneath Sherlock as the taller man rolled them over, and buried his face against John’s neck, breathing harshly.

“Yes, c’mon Sherlock, show me,” John pushed at the waist of Sherlock’s pyjamas, taking possession of a handful of his generous arse and holding them together.

“God, so much. I want you so much.” The voice at his neck was broken and ragged, “You have no idea.”

Reaching up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head, John replied tenderly, “I think I’m getting the idea. It’s alright, Sherlock, I want you just as much.” The evidence of how much was evident between them as their cocks lay hot and hard alongside each other. John shifted, dragging them against each other.

Sherlock groaned and tilted his hips, mimicking the move and adding to the rhythm.

John moved hands to hook fingers in both their waistbands, working the fabric down and finally baring them, there was a stuttering pause as silken skin settled to slip against each other before Sherlock resumed his movements, hot and hard against him.

Hands now free, John spat on his hand and managed to slip it between them both, circling his fingers around them both, gaining another hissing gasp as Sherlock’s pace became more determined.

With John’s free hand, he reached around Sherlock’s lean body, settling his palm against the sweaty small of his back, delighting in the feeling of the muscles bunching and flexing as Sherlock thrust against him.

“God, yes Sherlock, just like that. Just…” John could feel his orgasm building, faster than he’d expected, feeding off Sherlock’s abandon.

“Oh Christ, John,” Sherlock lifted his head to bring their mouths together, sucking one of John’s lips harshly between his own as if suckling on it. One of his hands was curled over John’s shoulder, clasping almost hard enough to bruise as he drove himself through John’s hand and against his cock.

John tore his mouth away to gasp, “C’mon Sherlock, don’t hold back, take what you need. I’m yours, I’m all yours.”

Sherlock whimpered, “Mine,” as his movements stuttered erratically and John swept a thumb up and over Sherlock’s tip feeling him swell and jerk in his grasp as warmth pooled over his hand. With a grunt, John thrust twice more and tensed, Sherlock’s name falling trembling from his lips as his muscles locked in ecstasy.

They lay panting against each other, shuddering as pleasure became oversensitivity, and finally they eased apart, Sherlock rolling to flop bonelessly on his back at John’s side.

John was just considering a trip to the bathroom when he felt the touch of Sherlock’’s hand on his, quietly intertwining their fingers. Oddly, it seemed the most intimate move of the evening and John found himself bizarrely close to tears.

“OK?” Sherlock’s voice was gentle, perhaps sensing the mood of the room.

“Yeah, just… “ John clasped Sherlock’s hand a little firmer, “yeah.”

“John…” The tone was tentative.

“Mmmm?”

“I’ll probably be hungry again in the morning.”

John chuckled tiredly, “Dessert for breakfast? Sounds OK to me.”


End file.
